


To the Sticking Place

by cultivateourgarden



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Doubt, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-11 04:52:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10455417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cultivateourgarden/pseuds/cultivateourgarden
Summary: After John is gravely injured, Sherlock tries to find the strength to help him.  But Sherlock's not well himself, and both old threats and new are gathering against them...Beta'd by impossiblyimprobable.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes stood and stared. He’d already catalogued everything—the temperature ( _21.5 degrees Centigrade outside, 23 degrees inside_ ), the glass ( _3.5 cm level 4 bulletproof glass, capable of withstanding a shot from a .30 caliber handgun_ ), the habits of the nurses ( _one would check in every thirty-three minutes on average; response time to an alarm approximately 45 seconds during first and second shift but closer to 90 seconds during third_ ), the routines of the guards ( _two on duty at all times nearby, probable response time to threat less than one minute; susceptibility to bribery low; susceptibility to threats to personal connections moderate_ ).

He had catalogued everything but the obvious, the thing that his mind refused, would not acknowledge. Could not. Because it was wrong, _wrong_ for John Watson to be lying in that hospital bed.

He stared at the machines keeping the body alive, knowing he knew what they were for, what their presence meant, but his mind rejected the knowledge.

John was fine. John was missing, but he would find him. He would find him, and John would be all right. He’d scold Sherlock for taking so long ( _1 year, 8 months, 17 days_ ), but he’d be _fine_.

He’d come home and…

He heard footsteps behind him, steps he couldn’t categorize, and he spun, hand moving to the gun ( _John’s gun_ ) he had hidden under his coat, ready to face the threat, ready to end the bastard if he dared show his face here.

The figure of James Sholto moved into view, his shoulders rigid as ever, uniform clean and pressed, though showing signs of wear now.

Sherlock turned away, dismissing the not-a-threat, returning to his contemplation through the glass. In the faint reflection, he saw John’s former commander move up by him, looking through the glass with a stiff look of his own.

They stood in silence, the detective and the soldier, both lost in their thoughts, and Sherlock was glad that the other man didn’t make any inane comments. So many people babbled to fill up the silence, it was intolerable.

He did speak, though, in the end, with a quiet candor only possible here, in this high security hospital that Mycroft had arranged. “You knew?” It wasn’t truly a question.

Sherlock didn’t meet the other man’s eyes, even in the glass. “I deduced. The Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers haven’t existed since 1935, yet a Corporal on security detail at one of the most top secret facilities in Britain didn’t question John’s statement that he was a part of it. And a doctor with a crack shot, one good enough to shoot through glass on a dark night from a distance and be sure he’d not hit me by mistake. That’s not natural talent, that’s training. The British government doesn’t give simple military doctors sniper training—I should know, since I’m related to the British government. And despite his dislike of her, John saw Ella Thompson both after his discharge and after my apparent death. In addition to her talent for being abysmally dense, Ms. Thompson also possesses a rather high security clearance. Ergo, John isn’t simply a military doctor attached to an infantry unit; he did work with the SAS.”

Sholto didn’t answer for some time, and the nurse came, entered the room, checked the vitals, and left.

Finally, the commander spoke, voice quieter but steady. “It was supposed to be a routine training mission. Watson was providing medical support back at base, and I was with some rookies in what was supposed to be a secured area. A would-be dictator got us.” Sherlock saw his eyes go blank a bit, still staring through the glass, but not really seeing the bed or its occupant anymore.

“They wanted to…extract information from us. They assumed I’d know the most, as the senior office, so they—started with my team.” Sherlock saw his knuckles go white at his side.

“They didn’t have much time to start in on me before Watson arrived with a rescue team he’d managed to cobble together. Only a few days. It was…not good. For a very long time.” _It’s still not good,_ went unspoken.

Sherlock felt a surge of white-hot envy, resentment, it should have been this man, not John, not _his_ John in that bed, it should have…

_Bit not-good, Sherlock._

He forced down the envy, pushing it into a small corner of his Mind Palace.

Sholto spoke again. “He’ll need you. If he makes it. If you start down that road, you can’t desert him. You understand? He won’t be able to deal with it, so don’t start if you can’t go all the way.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, letting his eyes focus, letting them _see._ See the machines breathing, pumping blood and medicine and fluids into his body, monitoring his heart rate and blood pressure. See the—see _him_ there, still, so terribly still. Too small, too bandaged, too pale. For a moment he swayed on his feet, and everything started to go grey until he felt hands catch him on one side and support him to the nearest chair.

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t, John… _John_ …

He heard an order to take deep breaths from somewhere very far away and he complied, forcing the air into and out of his lungs, forcing himself to focus. When he could see clearly again, Sholto was standing there. Sherlock steepled his fingers. “It was my fault. I should have saved him sooner.”

Sholto inclined his head once. “And that guilt is what we have to live with, when we lead men into war. So. Decide what you’ll do now, and do it. You’ll have to live with the consequences, either way.”

He turned on his heel and left Sherlock to stand again, a bit unsteady, and return to the glass, staring at John now. Would he even _know_ Sherlock if he woke? And if he did, would he want Sherlock anywhere near him?

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough, John,” he murmured softly at the glass.

“I don’t know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please watch the tags and warnings. From here out, graphic depictions of violence may occur.
> 
> Additional TW in this chapter: vomiting.

He couldn’t enter that room.

He’d discovered some time ago how deeply John had infiltrated, _infected_ his life. His memories of John couldn’t be erased, couldn’t be rewritten or deleted. He’d tried, he’d tried especially after John’s wedding, thinking perhaps pushing some away would allow him to function, to be John’s just-a-friend, to be— _John, come back, I need you—_

But he couldn’t. The memories refused to be removed. And so if he went in there, he couldn’t forget. He couldn’t erase what he saw, what he’d know.

And he couldn’t, he couldn’t know, because that couldn’t be John Watson in that bed, tortured and barely alive. That had to be some stranger, some other that he was guarding for a case.

There was no other acceptable alternative.

He paced restlessly ( _just over seven strides from wall to wall beside the room_ ), trying to force his dull, imbecilic mind to _think_. They still didn’t know who had done this. It could be anyone, they could come here, they could try and finish what they’d started, and he had to be ready, he couldn’t rest.

 _S.M._ The initials carved into—into— They knew those were the initials of John’s captor, but so little else. So terribly little else.

Sherlock kicked a bench fiercely, relishing the pain that shot up his leg as he did it. What use was he if he couldn’t solve a simple abduction, if he couldn’t—if he couldn’t save—

An alarm sounded suddenly, and Sherlock froze, staring at the figure in the bed. Not just pale now, but turning faintly blue.

Heart. John’s heart was—

_I will burn the heart out of you._

He shoved the door open, knowing he was breaking the proper cleanliness protocols, should have washed his hands, risk of further infection, and John was already so badly weakened… He stared at the monitor. Heartbeat erratic, dangerously so.

 _CPR?_ No, no CPR was only if it had stopped, stupid, stupid, he knew, what—what should he do, John would, John—He couldn’t breathe, he had to—John was going to die, he’d die if—

He heard the door open behind him and he was half pushed aside as a nurse hurried in, followed closely by a doctor. They started speaking to each other in calm, professional tones, pulling the gown out of the way, getting out machines. He knew he should be able to understand the words, but all he could hear was a rushing in his ears. All he could see was the horrific blue tint to John’s lips, the battered flesh they were exposing to put metal paddles ( _No, no more shocks, he’s been electrocuted, can’t you see that?_ ) against his chest. The initials carved, scarred into him over and over—

His stomach rolled and he fled, couldn’t, not in the room, not in _John’s_ room.

He found himself in a toilet without conscious memory of getting there, retching over and over until nothing but stomach acid would come up. He crouched on the cold tile, shaking violently, wishing he could wake from this nightmare, and John would walk in and say Lestrade was downstairs.

_John._

His transport betrayed him again, and he retched again, more acid coming up as he felt himself sob uncontrollably. He vaguely heard someone come and go in another stall, but he couldn’t seem to care or stop.

 _John is gone._ Even if he somehow survived the horrific condition he’d been left in, they said—they thought the damage—And Sherlock knew from his own brief brushes ( _Even Serbia was nothing in comparison_ ) how it could haunt you, alter your mind, leave you starting at shadows. What John had endured ( _1 year, 8 months, 17 days_ ) was so much worse, he’d be—he couldn’t—

Another round of vomiting.

He stopped only when it seemed there was literally nothing more to come out, when the retches had turned to dry heaves. He found his face and collar soaked with tears and simply couldn’t care about what anyone thought of it. ( _People will talk._ ) He flushed the mess and walked out to wash out his mouth, half staring when he saw himself in the mirror.

John would have scolded him. He’d lost weight—quite a lot and more than he knew was ideal. He looked gaunt, not just thin, more than he had even in his deepest days of addiction ( _not as thin as John_ ). The circles under his eyes were deep ( _remember sleep?_ ) and his hair was too long and tangled from too many washes with cheap awful soap. He needed a shave rather badly.

He didn’t care.

What good was it, this transport, if it failed him when he needed it most? When it demanded sleep, when it ignored that _John was missing_? What good was his mind if it couldn’t deduce who had done this, where John was, soon enough to prevent all this? What good was trying to look well if John—if John wouldn’t see or know—

He screamed, almost hearing the sound of rage as if someone else was making it, and punched the glass, feeling the sharp pain as it broke, a fragment slicing into his knuckles, blood crimson against the glass, against the too-bright white of the porcelain sink. He screamed again, and knew it’d draw someone’s attention.

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t be here.

He ran, shoving past someone ( _nurse, on his feet for 9 hours so far today, has a boyfriend at home_ ) and running down the hallway for the exit, out into the cold, rainy, windy night that suited his mood too perfectly even as it soaked into his shirt and skin.

He just ran.

_I’m not strong enough, John. I’m sorry, I’m not strong enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's not in a great place. 20 months of shorting yourself on sleep doesn't do wonders for anyone, genius or not. :(
> 
> If you're enjoying, please comment--they help me keep working at this! Thanks. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Temptation and a meddling brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal ideation

He ran.

The cold rain pelted against him as he felt his shoes strike the pavement over and over, his hair slick down. Sound and light blurred around him, honking cars and store lights, passers-by, music, the clatter of restaurants, the din of advertisements, phones ringing and dogs barking…

It overwhelmed him until he floated away from it, letting himself feel only the burn in his legs, the sharpness of his lungs. As if he could run forever, until he ceased to be tied to this body, this transport at all, and turned into an atom, a single electron moving so fast that no one could touch or hurt him…

He fell suddenly with a sharp gasp of pain as his knee collapsed under him, bringing him crashing to the pavement and into a filthy, muddy puddle. He crouched there, breathing hard, panting as the muddy water soaked his hands, making them ache dully. He became conscious that he was still weeping, the tears mixing with the sweat streaming down his face and the pelting rain.

_John._

The name kept circling around in his head, like an endless drumbeat pounding against his chest, each repetition sharper, making it harder to breathe through the gaping wound in his chest. What right, what _right_ did John have to do this to him, to make him so disgustingly _human_?

Sherlock slowly became aware of his surroundings. The boarded up windows, the flickering neon. The abandoned buildings that weren’t quite empty. The people eying him across the street, assessing if he was a threat or a potential customer.

The longing hit him like a fist to the stomach. The pain, the pain could stop. He could forget, he could make it not matter. Morphine would make it fade, would make it not ache so sharply. Would make it manageable.

Or perhaps just a bit more morphine, and it would be gone forever.

Darkness. Darkness without pain, without memory. Without feeling, without _loss._

He stood, ignoring the throbbing ache in his left knee, and moved for a moment towards the man standing near the corner, pockets indicating his wares, but then he stopped.

No. No, he couldn’t rest, not yet. Not yet.

They hadn’t found him yet, this _S.M._ John might still be in danger, the others might be. John might not be—He had to be safe. Could never be hurt again.

He turned sharply and started to limp away, away from the call of _rest, just rest_. He wasn’t sure where he was going, not yet, but he had to be doing. He couldn’t just sit in that hospital and hope…

A sleek black car turned the corner and pulled up. Sherlock scowled as it did, and for a moment, he considered ignoring it altogether. But that would only make it follow him, and it might draw undue attention. Better to have the canker out. He limped to the car door and yanked it open irritably, glaring at his brother inside. “Meddling as ever, Mycroft?”

Mycroft glanced up from the well-padded rear seat, eyes as smug and superior as ever. Perhaps there was a hint of worry there, but it was unfounded. He’d already decided not to take anything tonight ( _not yet_ ). “When you find yourself in an environment so rife with…temptations, I find it necessary to take a hand, dear brother.”

Sherlock snorted as he threw himself into the plush seat and yanked the door closed behind him, pressing against the door on his side of the car to keep the maximum distance between them. Pain was still shooting up and down his leg, but he ignored it, doing his best to hide it from his brother. It wouldn’t work, probably, but he could try.

As if reading his thoughts, his brother raised an eyebrow. “Bothering you again? I did tell you that you should spend more time in physio.”

Sherlock nearly snarled at him, remembering the sick rage, the impotent fear as they insisted he stay in bed, ignoring his protests that _John is missing_ , that he couldn’t sit and wait for himself to heal. “And what was happening to him while your pet doctors fussed and worried over me, _Mycroft_? What pain did he suffer that I might have prevented?”

Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. Ever insisting on playing the parent, being the wise one who knew best. “You were in no state to do anything, and you were as involved in the search for clues as any of my staff.”

“Who, as you yourself observed, spy on people for money. S.M. could just as easily be one of your team.” Sherlock glared down at his hands. One was shaking again, and he forced it to still. It was nothing, a mere nuisance. A pathetic reminder of his failures ( _so many, too many, John paid the price for them_ ).

“Possible. But racing around and aggravating your injuries isn’t likely to solve the case either. And neither is it to be found at the bottom of a needle.” Mycroft was looking at him now, giving one of those rare, too-serious looks. The ones Sherlock remembered when he was a boy and he’d come home with bruises from being pushed down at school.

He couldn’t take that now, forcing it away. Sympathy was impossible, because sympathy meant—no. He couldn’t. “It isn’t found in the bottom of a cake pan either, but that hasn’t stopped you yet, Mycroft,” he retorted snidely.

His brother looked away, which was the goal.

_Bit not good, Sherlock._ Sherlock scowled at his hands again. _Shut up, John. You’re in my mind, a figment conjured to be my conscience, to comfort me because I know you aren’t really here._

But Mycroft reached into a small compartment in the car and took out a lidded paper cup and a sandwich. “Eat and drink something, Sherlock. You haven’t eaten in four days, and you’re no good to anyone if you pass out.”

Sherlock took them and bit in, not tasting whatever either was. As much of a nuisance as Mycroft was, he wasn’t entirely wrong. His transport was starting to be a distraction to him. While he ate, he looked out the window unseeing and thought.

_S.M._ A name, most likely. Sadist, literally leaving his mark on—on his victim’s skin. Statistically most likely male. He’d seen some of the injuries just now, in the room, when they were—it was someone taller than John. Right-handed. Several of the marks were precise ( _John was unconscious or too weak to struggle_ ), suggesting extensive experience. Work for Moriarty, work for other organized crime? If it was Moriarty, S.M. must have worked for others first, surely.

Sherlock blinked, realizing how his eyes wouldn’t focus properly. Everything seemed so oddly distant, as if it was…so very far…away. He tried to look at Mycroft, but it was like turning his head underwater ( _they’d held John’s head underwater so many times, there was so much fluid in his chest_ ).

Mycroft had that look again, the _I know best_ one that said he’d done something ‘for Sherlock’s good’. “Wh’d…you do—b’stard?” he managed to slur out.

“You need, rest, Sherlock. Don’t worry. You and John will both be safe.”

Sherlock tried to lunge and punch him, but it was too hard to keep his eyes open. _You promised that before, Mycroft,_ he thought, but couldn’t manage to say aloud before he slid into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft means well but sometimes he can be a dumbass.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments are love.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep is not kind to Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW: References to sexual assault, descriptions of torture, description of character death.**
> 
> I don't speak Italian. Feel free to point out and correct any errors. Ditto for any other foreign languages used in this fic.
> 
> Thanks to impossiblyimprobable for working with me on this fic.

The door swung open and closed. Slowly, and each time it hit the frame and bounced back, it was like a crack of thunder.

Was that thunder?

It was, it was raining, wasn’t it?

Yes, it was raining, it was pouring. Cold. So terribly, terribly cold, and he could hear the buzzing of a single bulb—no. No this was—

Flat. John’s and Mary’s flat. They wouldn’t have left the door open, would they? Not when it was raining…

He moved inside, he found a gun in his hand. John’s gun, how did he have…

The door slammed again with another peal of thunder, and lightning flashed.

He tried to call out for John, but his voice seemed to be missing. Or perhaps he couldn’t hear it, it was so loud…

He turned the corner into the room, and gasped as he saw a body there, illuminated by another peal of lightning. A body with blonde hair, visibly pregnant, face obliterated by a gunshot ( _.50 caliber, fired from no more than a foot away, instantly fatal_ ), and there was blood, so much blood…

He pulled out his phone, dialing Mycroft with trembling hands.

“Mycroft.” His voice was too soft, his brother couldn’t hear him. “Mycroft, Mary—John…”

“You were too late, Sherlock.” His brother’s voice sounded in his ear. Sherlock dropped the phone, and John was there, lying on the ground, bleeding.

“No! John, no!” He tried to press his hands against the gaping wounds, but there were too many, and the blood kept leaking out, no matter what he did.

“You were always the stupid one, Sherlock.” His brother continued, implacable. “And others have paid the price, over and over…”

“ _John!_ ”

They were gone, they were gone…no, no, no, where, where was John, where was he.

Screaming. He could hear John screaming. He stared at the computer, with the single thumb drive ( _Kingston, 16GB, available at thousands of stores across hundreds of countries, no fingerprints, no useful metadata_ ). The recording. John’s screams, over and over, high and agonized.

Hurting, they were hurting him. Killing him.

He yanked the drive out of the computer, but the screaming continued.

He smashed the computer, threw it into the wall.

The screaming continued.

“ _JOHN!_ ” He screamed himself, trying to find the source. “John, where are you, I’m coming—I’m coming for you!”

Perhaps through that door, a shadowy figure?

He charged through and—

A small, cold cell, a stocky man with a bored look. “Perché sei venuto qui? Chi ti ha mandato?” _Why did you come here? Who sent you?_

“No one, no one! John Watson, I’m looking for John Watson!”

The man laughed and leaned closer, tilting his chin up and—“Remember sleep?” Another man, familiar, much too familiar, muscular, tattoos on his arms, angular features.

He jerked away violently, stomach rolling, but the chains held him back.

The man laughed, swinging a pipe in his hands casually, speaking Serbian. “You seemed lonely here. Your friend, shall we do to him what we did to you? Make you watch while he begs and pleads?”

He chuckled and Sherlock knew he was naked, knew what—no, no, don’t think about it, don’t deduce.

“Shall we make you watch while we take him, see how he compares to you? He’s so loyal, I’m sure you’ve done it already, but you wouldn’t mind sharing.” Sherlock screamed furiously and struggled against the chains.

No. No, they couldn’t. He couldn’t let them—“Don’t hurt him, don’t! You want me, he’s no part of this!” He hated the sick fear, the shame, the small part of him that longed for their focus to be somewhere else.

The man laughed and smashed the pipe into his ribs, winding him, making him double over. “No part of it? But he is, isn’t he? You brought him into it. You pulled him along. You knew he had a life, a wife, a child on the way. You couldn’t let him go, could you?”

It was—was Moriarty there now, in the background, laughing as he played with his gun. “Always too selfish, aren’t you, Sherly? I warned you from the start what I’d do. You had a chance to keep him safe. Just die, like you were supposed to. But you couldn’t, could you? You had to be clever.”

He was too close now, and Sherlock was in a straightjacket that grew tighter with each frantic struggle. “You always need to be clever. You’re never satisfied until you’ve proven you’re better than anyone else, but you don’t care what you break, do you? You never care what you break.”

There was breaking glass, so much breaking glass. Light bulbs shattering, going out, going dull, leaving him in the dark.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

“That’s the thing with conductors, Sherlock.” He had a light bulb base in his hand, the glass smashed out, the wire between the posts quivering until he yanked it loose. “They can be ever so _fragile._ ”

He smashed the broken bulb into Sherlock’s arm, and he felt the cut, small and bright and—

_He’s panicking, get him restrained, dammit!_

Light, flashing—John, John’s voice, _Where, where are you, come back, I need you, I’m trying to find you…_

Pain.

Running, running endlessly through the woods, sticks and rocks digging into his feet…

Blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sherlock. :(
> 
> Please comment if you're enjoying this!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rude awakening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Nightmares, sleep paralysis, PTSD. End of life issues.
> 
> Thanks to impossiblyimprobable for beta-ing.

Darkness. He was lost, it was cold—was it cold? He wasn’t sure, maybe he was hot…

No, that didn’t matter. John. John would be, John was—he tried to scream for him. Tried to call, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t seem to move, couldn’t make a sound.

Screaming, he kept hearing that. John’s screams, they were getting weaker. He couldn’t last like this, he’d be dead before they could find him, why couldn’t he _see_?

He tried to claw against it, force his eyes open, and for a moment, he thought a piercing light was there before darkness clawed…

A table. He was on a table, why was he on a table? Something had tied him down, he could feel the tightness against his arms and legs. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t open his eyes, he couldn’t scream. His heart was beating fast, much too fast ( _maximum heart rate zone for a 40-year-old male approximately 180 beats per minute_ ), too loud, he could hear it thundering, thundering…

_door swinging open and shut, blood on the steps_

The smell, he could ( _mildew, sweat, blood, old piss, cheap vodka_ )…no, it was more clinical ( _antiseptic, industrial cleaners, medical gloves_ )…

Why couldn’t he move? His heart was so fast, he couldn’t—

A door opened and his pulse soared ( _surely faster than it ought to be, what did they use_ ), footsteps walked by the bed. He fought to open his eyes but he couldn’t, helpless. He wanted to scream for help, but he couldn’t. They could do anything, they could—he couldn’t stop them. He couldn’t.

A man’s voice. “His heart’s spiking, page…” the words slipped away, he couldn’t get the rest. Another language? Not Italian, not Serbian, he couldn’t place it. He fought, wanting to escape. If he could only _move_!

More footsteps and he was pulled under again, still trying to get off this damn table.

He fought back to a blurry grey awareness again, aware of the restraints. Not good, this was very not-good. Focus. He had to focus. John. He couldn’t die here, he had to get to John, John was missing, John was being hurt. He had to get out of this.

He could feel the restraints, it was all so heavy, everything was heavy. Drugs? They must have drugged him to move him here, he couldn’t remember. _Fight. You can do it, Sherlock._

He dragged unwilling eyes open, despite a spike of hot pain as light stabbed into them. Too bright.

Footsteps. Someone else in the room, moving near him. He tried to move…yes. His hands were starting to work, to respond a bit. Let them think he was still helpless. Let them think he wasn’t a risk.

He heard the steps come closer and he forced his eyes open, wrenching against the table to try and headbutt the person standing over him. There was a startled cry and the person backed suddenly, the attack missing. _Drugs slowing my reflexes, stupid, stupid._

His mouth was horribly dry but he found his tongue would work again and he snarled at the figure. “Let me go, you bastards! I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you all, John, _John!_ ” John was here, he was in danger, they were hurting him, he had to—

“Pezzo di merda, rilasciami!” he spat at the figure, still barely in focus, the light too bright in his eyes as he struggled. No. Was that right, the man wasn’t—wrong language? “Ако сте га повредио, убићу те! Ја ћу вас побити!”

He had to get out, how had he gotten here? Who had taken him, where was John? If they’d taken John again…

Again. John. Mycroft. The hospital. He was in the same hospital John was in. The figure on the floor was a nurse, wearing the same uniform. Sherlock had seen her walking by in the last few days.

He forced the panic back into a small ball in the corner of his mind and forced his body to relax, pulse still racing and a leaden lump still in his stomach. Mycroft would likely see this, and he couldn’t let his brother see any further weakness. If he were to decide Sherlock couldn’t be near John…

_Breathe, Sherlock. Deep breaths._

It took Sherlock several minutes ( _several minutes too long_ ) to control himself enough to feel he could speak convincingly. The woman still hadn’t moved, obviously alarmed by the situation, and not wanting to make it worse. “I’m quite fine now, you can release me from these restraints. I take it my idiot brother decided they were necessary at the time?” He managed to keep his voice steady, despite how badly it seemed to want to quiver.

Undoubtedly they’d seen the nightmares. A shudder ran through him despite himself, as the memories filtered back in of what he’d dreamed, and his stomach rolled. When the nurse came close enough to release the straps, he almost punched her on instinct before he controlled the motion.

Sleeping, he’d been sleeping, strapped down on a table, unable to do anything, if they’d—

Despite himself, his stomach rolled violently and the nurse managed to get a trashbin just in time for Sherlock to be sick into it.

It was simply the after-effects of the sedative his brother had given him, just that, not remembering—no, he couldn’t think of that.

 _Lying to yourself, Sherlock?_ Moriarty’s high, amused voice sounded in his mind. _Bad habit, that. You know your brother knows. Think John would have still wanted you for his best man if he’d known too?_

He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing down the nausea and controlling his heart rate. This was nothing. Nothing to what John had been through. It was transport, weakness. Nothing else. He made himself meet the nurse’s eyes. “After-effect of the sedation. Go find somewhere your fussing is actually welcome.”

The woman looked slightly affronted and left, taking the smelly mess with her. Sherlock got out of the bed, testing his feet to make sure they were steady. His bad leg was sore, but manageable, and he’d had far worse. At least he was dressed. He went to the sink to rinse his mouth and then walked out, walking deliberately towards the ICU where—where John was. A glance at a passing clock told him he’d been unconscious for approximately twelve and a half hours. _John could have died. John could be dead and cooling in the morgue, and I wouldn’t know._

He walked a bit faster, ignoring the pain. One of John’s doctors looked up when Sherlock reached the desk in the unit. “How is he?” he demanded flatly. “Better, worse?”

The doctor hesitated a moment, and Sherlock’s stomach clenched. He spoke, cutting off before the doctor could come up with some platitude to offer. “Worse, then—doctors never hesitate with good news. Do you realize that momentary pause is worse for the families, who take the time to imagine far more scenarios than the one you’re about to convey, or do you simply not care?”

He could almost feel John’s hand on his arm, hear the note of warning in his voice. _Sherlock._

He turned his head automatically to look at—but John wasn’t there. Not really.

Not ever again.

Sherlock turned back to the doctor, trying to hide the motion and raising an eyebrow.

“The infection is growing worse. There is still some chance, and we’re trying different antibiotics, but his immune system has been severely compromised by what he’s been through,” the doctor admitted, though with a touch of anger at Sherlock’s words.

Sherlock turned from him without saying anything and walked to John’s room, stopping at the glass.

_John is dying._

The doctor hadn’t said it, but he knew the truth. It had been too long, John had been put through too much. His captor, this S.M., hadn’t released him just as a taunt, although it was that too. He’d been released so Sherlock could watch him die, despite everything he could do.

Part of him wanted to go in and shout at John, tell him he had to fight, he had to live. To beg John to hold on, promise him he’d be safe.

But what right did he have?

He couldn’t imagine the pain John was in now, even unconscious, let alone what pain he’d have to endure if he ever woke again. The blows to his head, the oxygen deprivation, the electrocution—the brain damage would be severe. He’d be understandably terrified.

What right did he have to prolong that, just because he would miss John? Wasn’t that what this S.M. would want?

He turned back and slowly walked to the desk again. He heard his voice almost distantly, as if he was hearing it on a recording. “I’m his power of attorney. Give me a DNR form for him.” He owed John that at least. To let him go if he couldn’t keep on.

The nurse at the desk looked grave, but obtained one for him, going through the details and showing him where to sign.

She glanced at him, obviously a bit cautious after how he’d spoken to the doctor. “Should we continue with the ventilator?”

He paused for a time. It would end, but…to _kill_ John. It was one thing not to force him back, but to take that choice away…no.

No, that wasn’t—he couldn’t do that. Not now.

“Continue to provide it.”

He hoped that was the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's back at least?
> 
> I don’t speak Italian or Serbian, but as far as I can tell, the Italian is something like _“Let me go, you piece of shit”_ and the Serbian is _“If you’ve hurt him, I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all!”_ People who actually speak either language, feel free to chime in.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments, they mean a lot! Let me know what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decision leads to a confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags. It's gonna start getting bumpier from here.

Sherlock walked back to John’s room like a man walking to his execution.

No, not even to that. He’d walked to his own death more than once. He’d welcomed it, sought it even at times. ( _Would again, if John died and once his captor was—dealt with._ ) This was far worse. Death was finite, death was the thing itself, and then nothingness. This, this was far worse.

_What right do you have to complain when he’s been through twenty months of torment?_

He swallowed hard as he stopped at the glass. The curtain had been drawn over the observation window to block out the light and make it easier to rest ( _absurd, John’s unconscious anyway_ ).

If John…if John was—dying. He shouldn’t be alone. He’d stood there as Sherlock jumped to his apparent death in front of him, he’d witnessed it. John was an infinitely better man, far stronger and far braver than Sherlock could ever be, but still. Still, John had endured too much with no one at his side but his captors. He deserved this much at least, surely.

Sherlock took a deep breath, washed his hands at the station, put on gloves and a mask, and entered John’s room.

The room felt small, crowded with the machines keeping…keeping John alive. Sherlock forced himself to see, to observe. The ventilator, breathing for him, forcing oxygen into his lungs, letting out the carbon dioxide ( _breathing, breathing’s boring_ ). Pneumonia, likely caused in part by a weakened immune system, but also by the build-up of filthy water in his lungs from repeated waterboarding.

An IV tree with several bags, slowly administering fluids and medication ( _painkillers, antibiotics, an electrolyte blend meant to avoid refeeding syndrome_ ). Infection, severe, but they were limited in what antibiotics they could use; many of the most common ones could worsen an existing arrhythmia. Morphine, a rather high dose for his weight ( _far too low, lost 40-50% of his body weight_ ); they weren’t worried about addiction at this point as much as keeping him as comfortable as he could be.

Monitors. Blood pressure ( _too low, though a bit above the dangerously low level_ ), pulse ( _thready and irregular_ ), blood oxygen level ( _too low_ ), temperature ( _high despite the antibiotics_ ).

The equipment painted a picture, a patient on the edge of collapse.

Part of him wanted to stop there, to spare his mind from knowing more. To keep from having to know, really know…

He stared at the pulse monitor, silenced, but conscientiously ( _hatefully_ ) tracing out each stumbling beat of John’s heart.

 _I will burn the heart out of you. I told you that, didn’t I, Sherlock?_ The mocking drawl sounded in his mind. _Sort of a coward, aren’t you? Too scared to really die for him, too scared to see what happened._

Sherlock grit his teeth, lips pulling back in a silent snarl at the figure taunting him in his mind. He forced his eyes to look down from the monitor, to look at…John.

To look at John.

_John…_

Information flooded in, an icy torrent that knocked the breath out of him. Much was obscured, but—

_One eye missing, surrounding damage suggests burning—pattern indicates likely a blowlamp—other patterns suggest use of acid to inflict chemical burns as well as heat burns—electrocution at multiple sites (probable patches at the sides of the head, armpits, groin, soles of feet)—open sore at the neck, probably inflicted by a tight metal collar—repeated brandings of initials SM over entire period of captivity—left hand amputated up to elbow here in the hospital due to severe infection—multiple broken bones including six in his right hand, three broken ribs, broken kneecaps, two broken bones in his legs, unknown number in both feet—multiple lacerations, bruises, and abrasions—_

He stumbled back, lost his balance, went to the floor hard, pressing his hands against his eyes, but the information was there, his mind sorting it, deducing it, _knowing_ what it meant. Writing it in the walls of his mind palace as if it was carved into the stone.

He pulled his hand from his eyes and pressed it over his mouth, forcing down a scream of rage and pain and horror, realizing he was shaking but unable to stop it.

The pain. John would have been in so much pain, such—even if there was no brain damage ( _there would be_ ), no one could survive that with their facilities intact. This wasn’t meant to extract information. This was pure sadism, meant to prolong the victim’s suffering as long as possible, until their body broke down and they could escape into death.

John. John hadn’t been allowed that, even. There were, there were marks among them. Healed scars with professional sutures. Over a long period. He’d wondered, after they sent another recording at nine months—John sounded so weak. He’d thought John couldn’t possibly have survived another eleven of the same treatment.

He hadn’t, though. Someone had made sure he was patched up. Healed. Perhaps starting to feel something like safe before he was taken back to the hell they’d kept him in. Even if he woke, could he ever trust anything or anyone after that?

And it wasn’t—it wasn’t the physical and psychological torture alone. He’d hoped, he’d _prayed_ to a deity he didn’t truly believe in that John would be spared that. The taunt that had accompanied the second recording, that it would be worse than Serbia—he’d hoped against hope that they didn’t know, that they meant the physical torment alone ( _as if that wasn’t enough, far too much for John to have to endure_ ). But the bruising around his mouth. The bandaging around his abdomen, the way they’d propped his lower back to keep strain off the stitches. He knew—he knew what that meant. He remembered…

_One in ten men, although statistics vary significantly given the issues with reporting._

He stood slowly, using a chair in the room to help keep his balance, and looked down at John, chest tight with pain. He reached out carefully, trying to find somewhere he could touch John that wouldn’t hurt him any more.

He finally lay his hand over John’s right, over the stiff cast encasing it. “I am—more sorry than I can say, John,” he said softly, knowing how utterly useless the sentiment was. “If you…” he had to fight down a sob. “John. If you cannot continue, I understand. You won’t be forced to come back again. And if you live, I swear to you that I will spend the rest of my life making sure no one harms you again.”

 _I’m sure he can trust that, considering how well you kept your last promise to him,_ Moriarty mocked silently.

He swallowed, unable to fight the tears that were starting again. “I love you, John Watson. I will—I will always love you, no matter what.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch. :( Part of the reason Sherlock hadn't looked before is he's been having enough issues resting. I'm afraid this is apt to join his hit parade of nightmares as well.
> 
> So, fun fact, I was trying to reference Macbeth with the title, and I didn't check my memory. It should be "sticking _place_ ", not "sticking point." Think I should change it?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holding vigil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Unhealthy over-exercising.

_45\. 46. 47._

Sherlock thought the numbers rhythmically as he raised and lowed himself through the motion of the push-up, ignoring the throbbing pain and trembling in one shoulder. The pain was good, it was necessary. It focused him.

It let him not think.

_48\. 49._

He felt the sweat streaming down his back, dripping through the lighter shirt he was wearing for the exercise. He’d have to clean it all up carefully, but at least it was all in the corner farthest from John. And sweat was an extremely low risk for disease transmission anyway—effectively no risk for the majority of communicable diseases.

_50\. 51._

It had been three weeks. John was still alive, but still unconscious. Breathing without being intubated, but still requiring supplemental oxygen. The pneumonia was lingering, refusing to give up its hold, and several other infections were nearly as bad.

_52\. 53. 54._

He tried to keep his focus on the numbers, but his mind was a computer, vast and endlessly busy, and the act of ‘counting’ wasn’t _working_ to keep it occupied, even with the pain and the exertion of the workout.

He finished at seventy-five and switched to crunches at a fast, brutal pace, pushing through the stabbing sharpness in his shoulder, and forcing his body to _work_ to do its one job of providing transport for his ( _useless_ ) brain.

They still didn’t know, they had no idea who had done this. Who S.M. was. He could come at any time, in any guise, and Sherlock wouldn’t _know_. He might already be in this hospital, watching, waiting for his chance to strike…

The door opened and Sherlock glared at the door. The nurse raised the tray in her hands slightly, a bit defensive. “Just changing his IV.” Sherlock stopped the crunches at _30_ and stood to watch her, ignoring the way his bad leg nearly buckled, alert to any signs of stress. A shaking hand, dilated pupils, anything that might indicate a threat to family, or an intent to harm.

He saw nothing so far, but S.M. was good—he’d eluded Sherlock for almost two years without detection, without even a clue to go on. Sherlock had to believe he’d have someone in this hospital, or would be here himself. His lips pulled back in a snarl at the thought, feeling the hot rage burning in his stomach.

If the man showed himself here, he would be very sorry indeed. Not the gun for him, no. No, Sherlock would make it far, far slower. He could never really pay for what he’d done to John, but he could _wish_ he could. Sherlock planned to make sure he died regretting what he’d done.

When the nurse left, Sherlock limped around the room, hating the throbbing pain that shot up his leg and down his shoulder and spine with every step. Transport, it was just transport. He’d take a fast shower later—Mycroft had done something useful for once and sent a bag of clothes—but for now he had to watch. Thirty minutes after each IV change, long enough to see if anything improper was in the medication. He could go after that, be back within ten minutes. His hair was a hopeless tangle, but he hardly cared now. Perhaps he should shave it, though John might not like it. _If he remembers me at all. If he wakes up._

He stopped, breathing hard, hearing his heart loud in his ears. Watching John. He was so still.

John wasn’t a ‘still’ person. He didn’t have the manic jitteriness Sherlock knew he had, but he always seemed subtly in motion, from a foot movement to a tilt of the head, to the facial expressions.

God, John’s facial expressions. Sherlock never tired of watching them, deducing what they meant. The little tension around his eyebrows when he was avoiding something, the trembling twitch of his lips when he was trying not to laugh at something inappropriate ( _that Sherlock had done_ ), the wrinkles between his eyebrows when he was annoyed.

The way he could turn so stern and commanding when he had to. You could forget that behind the truly hideous jumpers and never-tailored jeans, John Watson was a man who’d killed, fought with his own two hands, saved dozens of lives. John Watson was a man who didn’t flinch when something was necessary. Sherlock loved seeing that, the rare peeks of the soldier in the doctor.

He didn’t know when he’d fallen in love. Sometime after they met and John’s ever-so-awkward inquiry about his relationship status, but certainly before the pool. But he’d known when John took command at Baskerville, despite being convinced it was a truly terrible idea. And risking more than he’d admitted, using his clearance to get a civilian inside.

“It terrified me, John. I have not done well from being—vulnerable. It’s better to stay apart, as Mycroft always says. I thought perhaps I could or should drive you off, but when you walked away…John, I knew. I knew I could not lose you.”

He closed his eyes. “I would never have forgiven myself if Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade died. But you dying—that was intolerable. I hoped my time away would preserve that, though I never…” He didn’t say it aloud. _I never thought you’d end up marrying someone else._

He had liked Mary, in his way, though he hadn’t been sure if she could be trusted at first. But he’d imagined such a different reunion, perhaps finding the courage to tell John the truth. He’d thought John deserved a chance at happiness, at a normal life ( _without me_ ).

But he’d ruined that too. Mary hadn’t deserved what had happened, though at least her death was quick. Single shot to the head, she likely didn’t even feel it. And John…

He closed his eyes, burying his face in his hands, pressing them against it to keep them from shaking.

He _missed_ John. Even though the man was physically in the same room as him, it wasn’t the same, wouldn’t _be_ the same. If he woke, John would be terrified, unable to trust anything, especially at first. He’d have problems with motor control, perhaps with memory. He’d almost certainly panic at unexpected stimuli, reminders of his ordeal that Sherlock couldn’t anticipate.

He wouldn’t be the John Watson Sherlock knew. He wouldn’t be ever again.

Sherlock knew that in his bones, because he knew the man that he was when he walked into the restaurant where John was proposing wasn’t the same Sherlock Holmes who’d jumped off the roof. Some things—changed you. And he’d endured a mere fraction, the barest shadow of what John had.

If he—Sherlock paused, breaking his train of thought as he opened his eyes and saw a trace of motion behind John’s eyelid.

He nearly fell with the shock, after so long. He was—was he waking?

Sherlock started to speak, but found his throat too tight for a moment. What could he say? John would be frightened, the more so since he’d be too weak to move much. But silence would be alarming as well. Perhaps he should pull up a chair so he wasn’t looming?

He sank into the chair by John’s bed, finding his voice. “John. I know you must be—quite alarmed. Suffice it to say that you’ve been rescued, and Mycroft’s arranged for a—” _better not mention hospitals_ “place for you to recover. Take your time waking, there’s no hurry.” He was proud of how steady his voice was, making sure it was quiet. Going from unconsciousness back into the waking world would be a shock.

He was conscious of his heart pounding in his ears, but he kept focused, scanning between John’s face and the monitors, watching for any signs of change. He waved off the nurse on her rounds, not wanting more strangers to startle John when he was half-awake.

Twenty minutes, John’s good eye flickered open, blinking, and then turning up to see the equipment.

The hospital equipment ( _ventilator, heart rate and blood pressure monitors_ ) caught his eye, and for a long minute he stared with dawning horror.

Then, his body arched painfully on the bed and he _screamed_ with terror and despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, he's conscious.
> 
> How do you think it'll go from here? What villains do you anticipate/hope to see?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to stay calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life is kicking my ass here guys. I'm trying to keep writing through it, but this is going to be a touch stretch due to some issues at work.
> 
> TW: Violent thoughts, suicidal intent.

The scream seemed to freeze Sherlock, immobilize him into helpless paralysis. John. John was screaming, he was terrified…

_Staring at the hateful, useless thumb drive that told him nothing except that John was in pain, John was_ dying _and Sherlock couldn’t do anything about it, couldn’t find him…_

He found his vision greying around the edges and clutched at the arms of the hospital chair, trying not to fall over.

Terrified. John would be—it was the hospital, he’d be afraid of the equipment, they’d, they’d patched him up, some _bastard_ calling himself a doctor had healed John up so he could be tormented further.

_He’d die, slowly, bleeding, begging for the release of death long before Sherlock let him bleed out. Perhaps cutting and re-suturing over and over, perhaps cut the Hippocratic oath into his useless, hypocritical carcass…_

How long had passed? Five seconds? Ten? He had at most thirty second before the nurse or doctor blundered in and frightened John worse, and he was starting to thrash, pulling at healing wounds under bandages ( _blood spotting through the bandages, possibly pulling stitches_ ).

“John. I—John.” He hated the crack in his voice, the way it sounded weak and unsteady. “John, look at me.” Would an order help? He hated to reinforce what they’d done, but he had to heal…

It was as if John hadn’t heard, still straining against the bed and screaming, though weakly ( _he’d sounded so weak in the second recording, Sherlock hadn’t thought he could make it more than another month, and it had been so long after that_ ). He was struggling against the wires and lines—he would pull out the IV in a moment.

Sherlock swallowed painfully, unsure if he should try and restrain John, he’d be terrified if they did, but he’d hurt himself, he could break something further…

John’s arm slammed into one of the railings of the bed, making a sickly thumping noise as the cast thudded against it, and Sherlock saw the plaster crack a bit. That would hurt, John, John shouldn’t hurt any more than he already was… Sherlock half-rose and gently restrained John’s arm where the IV was going in, and his other shoulder. He didn’t speak. His throat was too thick, and he wasn’t sure he _could_ speak without vomiting. And John wouldn’t understand. Not like this.

He felt his eyes stinging bitterly but forced it back. John was struggling against him, though without any real strength.

“John. Captain John Watson, listen to me!” John’s struggles slowed, although Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was the instruction or simple exhaustion. He was still weak, so _weak_. ( _They didn’t know if he would survive, if he’d ever leave the hospital again…_ ) He didn’t, wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes, as if frightened of him, and there was no recognition there.

_John doesn’t know who I am._

The thought slammed home, as if he’d been struck by a lorry. He had been hit by a car before, on purpose, and even expecting it, it had hurt, it had winded him. John was there then, chasing the mad flatmate he’d barely known, accosting a confused tourist. Shooting a serial killer less than twenty-four hours later.

This was much worse, it was _agony_ , and he truly couldn’t breathe for a moment, struggling to force his chest to continue to work, his brain to function. He felt tears ( _Shameful, what right do you have, in front of him?_ ) hot and stinging on his cheeks, and shook his head to try and force them away.

John’s eyes were fixed on his chest, the same coat Sherlock always wore, one of the shirts he knew John had particularly liked on him. But he was looking at them blankly, with silent, dull terror.

“John.” He forced his voice into steadiness. He wasn’t even sure if John could _hear_ , there was blood that had pooled in one side of his head from being kicked around, and no one was sure the full effects of the traumatic brain injury, the electrocutions, the waterboarding… He fought down another wave of nausea with an effort of will, forcing himself to note John’s reactions. There was a momentary blink of response. Perhaps not comprehension, but hearing at minimum.

“You are somewhere new. I know you have little reason to trust this, but…you’ll be safe here.” He saw John’s pupil dilate slightly, and felt his breathing pick up. Fear, distrust. Conditioned, probably. Afraid of another cycle of healing leading to further torture.

“I know. I know you don’t believe me. I know, John.” _Trying to reassure yourself? You’re certainly not reassuring him,_ Moriarty taunted silently. “I want to let go of you. You must stay still so you don’t hurt yourself more.”

There was a moment, then a tiny nod, a defeated look on John’s face that wrenched at his heart. He heard the door open and he put a hand out to gesture for the doctor ( _heavier step, slightly uneven from a wart he’s treating on his right foot_ ) to stay as John’s head turned towards the door, a fresh wash of panic flooding into his face.

Sherlock carefully released him, sinking back into his chair. John stayed still, apart from a terrible shaking as he tried to watch the doctor, Sherlock, and the equipment over him. His breathing was fast and dangerous though, much too shallow. Hyperventilation, he’d pass out in a moment if they couldn’t get it under control. Sherlock had to, he had to do something.

“John. Listen to me. You’re—you’re frightened, I know. I know you don’t want to be here. Breathe. Can you do that for me?”

It was like a switch was flipped suddenly. John’s eye went huge and he started to breathe faster, heart racing dangerously ( _bleeding getting worse, heart’s trying to push the blood too hard, too quickly_ ), and he screamed again, twitching, expression blank and unseeing. Or seeing things that weren’t there ( _Sherlock would kill them if they touched him again_ ).

The doctor moved in at that, a syringe in his hand. “No, he’ll be more frightened, you can’t—” Sherlock tried to stop him, but the doctor pushed his way by, inserting it into the IV line. Sherlock sat helplessly, watching John’s cries grow weaker and still as his body collapsed back into unconsciousness again.

Useless.

He was so _bloody_ useless. John deserved someone better, deserved someone _competent_ , but he couldn’t just leave either. John didn’t deserve to be left alone, and this monster, this S.M. might try to take him again.

So he’d stay. He’d stay until everyone who laid a finger on John was dead, and until John had someone trustworthy to stay with him, someone John could trust.

And then Sherlock could die. Preferably slowly and painfully, as he deserved.

He leaned back, steepling his fingers, trying to force himself to breathe properly. “I swear to you, John,” he murmured softly. “I swear to you that you’ll be safe. I’ll make sure of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure about this chapter, tbh! Let me know what you think.


End file.
